


Breaker Breaker

by ClockworkCourier



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Kissing in the Rain, Original Character(s), Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-08 00:07:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14682333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkCourier/pseuds/ClockworkCourier
Summary: It starts with drunken karaoke on the radio in the middle of the night, and it just gets worse from there.





	Breaker Breaker

**Author's Note:**

> [flings this onto AO3 and stumbles out before anyone notices]
> 
> So this is mostly just kind of a self-indulgent-y writing thing to help me get used to writing for some FC5 characters. And I rly like Jacob, so there's that. I promise I'm working on like, serious, angsty stuff with characters that aren't as drunk/ridiculous/wtf why as they are in here. 
> 
> Also, here's [Cody](http://hawkfurze.tumblr.com/post/173955269000/commission-for-radiojamming-of-their-deputy-cody) in case anyone wants a mental image of her sprawled out and shit-faced. Bless.

“God, I _love_ Montana,” Cody announces to the entire forest. It’s a very heartfelt declaration, complete with a toast of some very generous prepper’s fifth of Jack Daniels. It’s drained halfway, but her boot knocks over an empty plastic bottle of Malibu from the same cache. In short, it’s closing in on one in the morning, and Cody Oakley has had one _hell_ of a good night. She says as much to all the creatures of the forest, like a very wasted fairy tale princess, and sets aside a good note to all apocalyptic preppers.  
  
Maybe in hindsight, getting sloshed in Jacob’s region isn’t the best idea she’s had. It’s hardly even the best _sober_ idea she’s had. She’s been hunted, kidnapped, conditioned, and all of those _ets_ and _ceteras_ ; and yet here she is, stretched out on a downed tree, content as a cat in a sunbeam. She hasn’t run into any Judges, or any Peggies at all for that matter. Maybe they’ve collectively thought better of chasing down a liquor-soaked deputy, or maybe she’s been able to evade them by sheer dumb luck. Without conditioned soldiers and wolves snapping at her heels, the Whitetails turn out to be a pretty peaceful place.  
  
She regards the bottle of Jack like it’s an _objet d’art_ , cradled in her hands. “You, my friend, are a good influence,” she announces to it. It sloshes merrily in the moonlit darkness, happy in its response. “Whaddaya think we should do next, Mr. Daniels?”  
  
_Karaoke_ is her first thought, bobbing around in her brain like a happy little sailboat. _Very, very loud singing. Everyone needs to hear it._  
  
“You’re so smart,” she tells the bottle, kissing the label before kissing the rim and upending it into her mouth in one swift movement.  
  
The problem is that her audience is limited. There’s a raccoon snuffling in the leaves only a short distance away, and a deer or two silently plying the undergrowth. But honestly, that’s not the kind of audience she _needs_. She needs to tell all the important people how lovely Montana is, with all its beautiful mountains and doomsday cults and great taste in beverages.  
  
Then she remembers the radio clipped to her belt, and she happily accepts the first prize award for best idea she’s ever had.  
  
Unclipping it, Cody leans back on the log, looking up at the endless spray of stars through the spotty canopy of trees. The bottle hangs between two fingers of her left hand, while she keys the radio with her right. “Gooood evening, ladies and gents,” she croons. “And mostly to one _very_ special Herald out there in the Whitetails. How’s it goin’, Mister Jacob?”  
  
No immediate response, except for a very enthusiastic cricket in the ferns to her right.  
  
Static hisses from the speaker before someone grumbles, “ _Deputy_.”  
  
“Jacob Seed! G’mornin’!” Cody chirps, happily swinging the bottle back and forth beside her. “First, lemme just say, your region is _great_. You know how many people hid shit in empty logs? Like, tons.”  
  
Silence again. Then, “... _Are you drunk?”_  
  
“As a skunk, sir,” she affirms. “Lotsa thanks to some doomsday prepper called Holyoke, whoever he was. He liked mixing his hard liquors, apparently.”  
  
Jacob sighs through the receiver. “ _And what have you destroyed tonight?_ ”  
  
“Oh, nothin’! ‘Cept maybe my liver, but she’ll hold up fine,” Cody drawls. “Besides, I didn’t do the— Shit, whatsit... How does that thing go? Like beer before wine—” She frowns and squints up at the trees like they have the answer. “Nah, that ain’t it. Somethin’ before somethin’, never been somethin’.”  
  
Another sigh. “ _Beer before liquor,_ ” he says tiredly.  
  
“Never been sicker!” she cheers, almost falling off the log. “You’re so smart, Jacob. Too bad you’re in a murdercult. I kinda like talkin’ to you.”  
  
He doesn’t immediately reply. He’s also not calling her a fake soldier, or threatening her with his Hunters, so that’s a plus. Then again, it also sounds like she just woke him up. Which reminds her—  
  
“Oh! I called you up for a reason! I needed an audience,” she says, stomping her boot on one of the dried up roots of the log for good measure.  
  
“ _You definitely have one,_ ” he grunts, and she hears something clattering on his side of the radio.  
  
“Good. Great,” she replies with a grin. Then, she clears her throat, taking in a deep breath through her nose before, “ _JER-E-MI-AH WAS A BULLFROOOOOG! WAZZA GOOD FREN’ OF MIIINE!_ ”  
  
“ _Holy shit_ _,_ ” says Jacob, but Cody can’t hear him over her own performance. A few birds even take off through the trees, and the raccoon scurries away.  
  
\- - -  
  
“I _hate_ Montana,” Cody says into her arm, most of the word ‘Montana’ muffled into her jacket sleeve.  
  
Morning arrives cold and blue, the sun just beginning to peek over the mountaintops before its light swims into the valleys and forests. Dew clings to every blade of grass and strand of spider silk shivering in the breeze. Dew also soaks Cody’s t-shirt (a gray, sodden thing reading _CORNHOLE CHAMPION 2015_ ) and drips off the windproof fabric of her jacket. She shivers and groans, blinking against the pale light, her head feeling like it was the prime location of a Testicle Festival roundup.  
  
It takes the greatest effort to actually sit up. Everything is tilting and spinning, and the ground is as solid as muskeg beneath her boots. She blinks blearily at the shapes scattered around the log; her compound bow, her backpack, and the two empty bottles of alcohol that caused all of her problems. Sniffing, she pulls her hood up over her head and crosses her arms over her chest.  
  
Then, there’s a soft clicking sound beside her, followed by a long, low hiss of static.  
  
She looks down to see her radio, her hip accidentally pressing it between herself and the log. Her eyes widen and she gingerly picks it up as it clicks and hisses again.  
  
“I totally dreamt it,” she tells herself, trying to ignore the skunky garbage taste in her mouth. “Didn’t sing at all. Absolutely didn’t.”  
  
Another click, followed by the unmistakable sound of human movement. _Please be Dutch, or Jess, or anyone but—_  
  
“ _Good morning, Deputy,_ ” Jacob says smoothly. _Way_ too smoothly. Like, John’s preaching level of smooth. “ _Sleep well?_ ”  
  
Her head doesn’t have much room for anything aside from hangover agony, but mortification is creeping in close behind it. She steadies herself and pretends that she didn’t hear him at all. She sets the radio aside and busies herself with hooking one of the straps of her backpack with her boot and pulling it towards her.  
  
“ _I know you’re awake,_ ” he continues, sounding amused.  
  
Cody casts a quick, dizzy look around the woods, looking for any metallic or glossy shine of a sniper rifle hidden in the foliage or up on a rock face. And even though it looks like the whole forest is rocking back and forth, nothing _in_ the forest is moving. She might not be as observant as she could be, but she contents herself with thinking that he’s probably holed up in the Veterans Center. Then, with a groan, she pulls the radio back and presses the button.  
  
“Really wish I wasn’t,” she mumbles, rubbing her forehead with her opposite hand. “Can we pretend you didn’t hear anything last night?”  
  
“ _No can do,_ ” he replies. “ _Besides, I thought you said you liked talking to me._ ”  
  
“‘Bout as much as I like talkin’ to the rest of your family,” she huffs. “How about you go do whatever it is you do; shooting stuff or doing shitty psychology lessons or whatever. Just let me die under a log in peace.”  
  
He _laughs._ Jacob Seed actually _laughs._ If the unmistakable sensation of a hangover wasn’t enough to ground her in painful reality, she would have thought she dreamt it. “ _For now,_ ” he says. “ _Even though you’d make easy prey. I don’t think you would be able to run very far like this, Deputy._ ”  
  
“If you want me to puke on you right out of the gate. Maybe ruin your upholstery.” With an agitated sigh, she reaches over and yanks the compound bow over to her side. It can’t quite be seven o’clock; way too early to be running from Jacob’s archers and wolves. “Let me simmer in shame for a few hours and then you can go nuts. Okay?”  
  
She can hear the smirk in his voice without having to see it tug at the scars on his cheeks. “ _Of course. I’ll be keeping an ear out._ ”  
  
She doesn’t hesitate to turn off her radio after that. Everyone can give her an earful for it later.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](https://radiojamming.tumblr.com)
> 
> I make fun of the Seed family a lot, and I fill prompts. It's good times.


End file.
